


Christmas with the Burkes

by bree_black



Category: White Collar
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Multi, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bree_black/pseuds/bree_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal finds Christmas with Peter and Elizabeth a little...overwhelming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas with the Burkes

On December first, Neal arrived for dinner - as usual - with a six pack of Peter’s favourite beer tucked under his left arm, and a bottle of wine for Elizabeth and himself in the same hand. He nearly dropped both when he walked in the front door.

The place looked like it had been ransacked. Belongings were strewn across the floor, scattered over tables, and thrown over the back of every chair or couch in sight.

“Peter?” Neal whispered as loudly as he could. “Elizabeth?” It was times like this he wished Peter would let him carry a gun.

Heavy footsteps sounded from the basement, coming closer as the apparent intruder progressed up the stairs. With his free hand, Neal grabbed the closest weapon-shaped object he could find, something long and hard, and then braced himself for a fight.

And then Peter emerged from the basement, carrying a huge artificial Christmas tree. While Neal gaped, he set it down on the only clear patch of ground in the living room. Arms free, he took the wine and beer, dropping a quick kiss onto Neal’s mouth before heading to the kitchen.

“You’re late,” he called over his shoulder. “You missed most of the heavy lifting, but I think there are still a few boxes downstairs.”

Neal was _not_ late. Neal was never late unless he wanted to be, and he always made sure he was a respectable five minutes early for dinner with Peter and El. Of course, he had spent those five minutes in the alcove, preparing to face a mystery intruder.

Neal stopped, reconsidered his surroundings. Strewn across the floor were green wreaths, rolls of red ribbon, and star-shaped golden woven baskets. On every flat surface sat piles of sparkling ornaments painted garish colours, images of Santa Claus, and reindeer winking suggestively. Thrown across the backs of chairs were strings of multicoloured lights, tablecloths with poinsettia patterns, and enormous felt stockings. In his right hand, Neal still brandished a huge red and white striped plastic candy cane like a club.

“You’re decorating for Christmas,” Neal said, repressing the urge to sign with relief.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Peter answered, “You should consider a career in detective work.” Neal could practically _hear_ the wink in his voice.

Neal huffed out a breath, irritated by his own paranoia. “Don’t put the wine in the fridge,” he warned.

“He knows, dear,” Elizabeth said as she descended the stairs. “I taught him that _years_ ago.” She startled Neal; the sight of her always sort of took his breath away, but she was particularly eye-catching wearing a pair of light-up reindeer antlers.

“Your accessories are particularly striking this evening,” Neal said, covering his surprise. He kissed the back of her hand when she reached the bottom of the stairs, then turned it over and kissed her palm, her wrist, the patch of soft skin at the inside of her elbow...

“Hey now,” Peter said, emerging from the kitchen. “There are boxes to be brought up. First work, then food, _then_ fun,” he ordered. Neal thought he was mostly joking, at the time.

The thing was, the Burkes took Christmas _really_ seriously.

That first night, they sorted all the Christmas decorations into colour-coded rooms of the house. This proved more difficult than it should have been because half the cartons were improperly labelled, or had layers of writing scrawled across their lids from years of use. In one box labelled “crystal ornaments,” Neal discovered an animatronic stuffed Santa, naked from the waist-up in his bathtub.

Two nights later, Neal and Elizabeth watched from the ground as Peter scrambled around the roof hanging Christmas lights. Elizabeth shouted instructions when Peter’s looping was uneven; Neal mostly repeated “please don’t fall” over and over in his head. When they got inside (finally!), they broke open their plastic-covered cartoon character advent calendars, and they each ate three pieces of chemical-tasting chocolate, to catch up with the days they’d missed.

A few days later they hung wreaths, and Elizabeth wrote up a Christmas baking schedule in neat cursive, pinning it to the fridge with an angel-shaped magnet.

And Neal loved it, he really did. He just also found it exhausting.

“What were your family Christmas traditions?” Elizabeth asked, peeking over Neal’s shoulder at the gold filigree border he was painting on to her handmade Christmas cards. They knew to refer to Neal’s family in past tense, by now.

“We didn’t really have any,” Neal answered. He tried not to let the question distract him from his work, biting his lip as he traced elaborate curlicues onto the corner of a card. “My mom usually ordered Chinese food Christmas Eve, and I was allowed to stay up late by myself, watching the holiday specials. You know, _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ and stuff. That’s about it.”

“It sounds lonely,” Elizabeth said, reaching over to pick up the completed card carefully by its edges, moving it along the table so that Peter could glue a sprig of holy to the top of the card. Peter always was assigned the easiest jobs in craft projects; Neal got the sense they were both glad to have him - and his talents - around this Christmas.

“It was...peaceful,” Neal said. “That wasn’t something I got a lot of, growing up.” He bit his lip, dipping his brush back into the paint. His childhood wasn’t something he liked to talk about.

Peter broke the moment of heavy silence that filled the room. ‘Hurry it up over there. You’re slowing down the assembly line,” he said lightly.

Off the hook, Neal turned his attention back to his work.

By the end of the second week of December, Neal was suffering from serious holiday fatigue. Between gingerbread baking nights (successful) and ice skating dates (significantly less so), he hadn’t been to sleep before midnight once the past week. Since he and Peter were still spending their days catching criminals, it felt like he had two full time jobs: one at the FBI, and one at Christmas Central.

In a way it was really great. Neal could tell they were both working hard to make sure he felt included; there was a felt stocking embroidered with his name on the mantle, ready to be hung Christmas Eve. There was just a lot going on, and though Neal was perfectly capable of thriving in the midst of chaos, he honestly preferred calmer surroundings when he wasn’t working a job. And less hideous ones.

“You’re sure you want me to hang this?” Neal asked, giving El one last chance to decline.

“Yes! It’s Peter’s favourite,” she insisted. Neal examined the wreath again, trying not to wince. It was covered in plastic blue Christmas ornaments, a fuzzy coating of blue tinsel, and six waxy Elvis figurines, all in different poses. Neal couldn’t say he was surprised Peter liked it.

“But why do you _let_ him put this stuff up,” Neal whined. “You’re a party planner!” Neal had been to Elizabeth’s parties. They were elegant, tasteful and sophisticated...exactly the opposite of her house, right now.

Elizabeth laughed. “Sweetie,” she said, “do you really think this stuff is all Peter’s?” She pointed to a giant stuffed penguin missing an eyeball across the room. “That was given to me by my favourite uncle, when I was ten. My sister’s cat ate the eye. I’m as responsible for this - yes, tacky - decorating scheme as Peter is.”

“So you do it because you feel obligated?” Neal asked. “For tradition’s sake.”

El smiled. “Maybe, partly. but I also like it. I spend most of my life planning tasteful soirees. It’s like a special treat to lose myself in all of this.” She took the _Blue Christmas_ wreath from Neal and hung it on the wall, like the punctuation at the end of her sentence.

In mid-December they decorated the tree, and stumbled into their first Christmas obstacle.

“I hate it,” Elizabeth declared, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the poor tree as if her gaze might set it on fire.

“Oh come on, it’s not _that_ bad,” Peter said, and Neal privately agreed. It was no more awful than anything else in the house, right now.

“I want a real tree,” Elizabeth insisted. “Neal, go get me a real tree.” She turned to him, batted her eyelashed and ,em>pouted, and Neal was already planning how to sweet-talk a cabbie into letting him transport a pine tree on his cab roof.

“Don’t even think about it,” Peter said, interrupting Neal’s scheming. “I’m certain there’s nowhere to buy Christmas trees inside your radius. And besides,” he turned to Elizabeth, ‘we talked about this. Satchmo always tries to eat the tree, and after that squirrel thing last year...”

“Artificial trees are just so...impersonal,” El whined.

“Squirrel thing?” Neal asked, but they both gave him that look that meant he was better off not knowing.

“No, I think an artificial tree is just as nice, and much safer. Now, who wants some egg nog?”

A week before Christmas, Elizabeth started putting gifts under the tree, and Neal freaked the fuck out. Inside his head, of course.

“...and I was thinking we could roast the chestnuts tomorrow night, what do you think?”

“What?” Neal said, still staring at the massive pile of gifts under the tree, at least six marked with his name. “Oh, sure. Sounds wonderful.”

Peter, who had been staring not at the gifts, but at Elizabeth’s ass as she bent over to arrange them, rushed to agree. “Oh, yes. Chestnuts, roasted on an open fire.”

The thought of eating anything - chestnuts included - made Neal want to puke.

Back at June’s, Neal had three gifts tucked away in his hidden safe: a new tie for Peter, a silk scarf for Elizabeth, and a bone-shaped charm for Satchmo’s collar. Each was neatly wrapped in gold and silver paper, and topped with a small, tasteful bow.

When Neal had bought them - legitimately - they had seemed like perfect gifts. Personal, but not too intimate or overtly romantic. Beautiful, but also useful. Just the right things to give your friends-and-sort-of-secret-lovers. He’d always been a big fan of romantic gestures in the past; he’d gone over the top to express his affection. But he was trying to be different with Peter and Elizabeth. He didn’t know how much right he had to their lives; he didn’t want to push too far too fast.

But compared to Elizabeth’s pile of gifts, compared to his name on a stocking hanging next to theirs, his carefully selected gifts felt cheap, cold, _impersonal._ After everything they’d done to include him in their Christmas, he couldn’t just hand them pretty things.

Neal Caffrey wasn’t a man to take a tragic situation lying down.

Three hours later, Mozzie walked into Neal’s apartment (without knocking) to find him sitting in the middle of a pile of green paper, folding rapidly. “Oh god,” he said. ‘They ran out of room for the Christmas kitsch chez Suits, and are sending leftovers home with you.”

“Shhh,” Neal said, frantic, “I’m working.”

“It’s two in the morning, Neal. What are you working on?”

“It’s two in the morning,” Neal countered. “What are you doing here?”

“Stealing your Christmas cookies, of course,” Mozzie answered, peering into one of the several tins stacking up on Neal’s counter. “I may mock excessive holiday spirit, but I can still reap its rewards.” He popped a gingersnap into his mouth.

“Moz, you can help or you can leave,” Neal said, without looking up from his work.  
Mozzie sighed. “You can pay me in baked good. What do you need?”

By December 23rd, Neal thought he might not even live to see the Christmas they’d been preparing for. Between his regular job, - crime never takes a holiday! - caroling, cooking and cider-drinking with Peter and Elizabeth in the evenings, and his side project at night, Neal felt like a zombie. Not that he ever let anyone see it.

“I got what you asked for,” Mozzie declared triumphantly, bursting through his door. “But it wasn’t easy.” He dropped his treasure on the floor by Neal’s feet. “You sure you don’t want more help?”

“No, thanks,” Neal answered. “I kind of have to do this on my own.”

He reached down to pick up the first piece of red origami paper. There were hundreds of sheets, all different colours and patterns, spread out at his feet. It was going to be a long night.

On Christmas Eve, Neal drank three cups of June’s best espresso before heading over to Peter and Elizabeth’s house. They had promised him a surprise and, quite frankly, Neal was expecting a midnight sleigh ride, or a live re-creation of The Nutcracker staring Satchmo as the Rat King. Whatever the plan, it was sure to be exhausting, and Neal had gotten exactly zero sleep the night before.

He had to charm the cabbie into helping him squeeze his extra gift into the cab, but that part, at least, was easy. He slipped the other three easily into his coat pockets.

It was Peter who opened the door. Neal, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, watched his expression change from confusion, to laughter, to something much softer. “Oh,” he said.

“Is he here, is he here?” Elizabeth said, practically skipping to the door. She stopped dead when she saw them, putting a hand over her mouth.

“Is it stupid?” Neal asked, forgetting to act casual.

He had made them a Christmas tree - one that was artificial, but not impersonal. Built entirely of folded paper layered onto a wire frame, it stood nearly as tall as Neal himself. The boughs were various shades of green, but it was the ornaments Neal was proud of. Multicoloured cranes and roaring striped tigers, red and white candy canes and red and green wreaths, gingerbread people and hearts and dragons and a few pairs of tiny handcuffs. At the very top of the tree sat a large golden star with so many points Neal had lost count even as he folded.

“It’s so...” Elizabeth seemed to struggle to find the right adjective.

“Tacky?” Neal supplied helpfully.

“Beautiful,” Peter corrected, and he picked up the tree with great are not to crush anything. Elizabeth threw the old tree down the stairs to the basement with great glee, and Neal’s paper tree replaced it in the place of honour. Neal slipped his gifts out of his coat pockets and under the tree.

“So,” he said. “What’s on tonight’s agenda?” He looked around him for evidence of costumes. “I bet Christmas Eve with the Burkes is truly epic.”

Just then the doorbell rang. “That must be it right now,” Peter said, heading for the door.

“If it’s Diana dressed as Santa, tell her she didn’t have to go to such extreme lengths to get me to sit on her lap,” Neal quipped.

Neal smelled the answer before he saw it; Peter returned with a steaming paper bag of Chinese food.

“What’s this?” Neal asked, even as the grin was already creeping onto his face.

“A new tradition,” Elizabeth answered, plopping herself onto the couch beside Peter, who was already laying out food on the coffee table. he patted the cushion next to him with a pair of chopsticks, and Neal sat down. “I thought we could use a little peace on Earth.’

Elizabeth picked up the television remote, flipping channels in a way Neal recognized as just a little _too,_ casual. She stopped on a brightly-coloured screen.

“Oh would you look at that,” Peter said. “ _A Charlie Brown Christmas._ ”

Neal lay with his head in Peter’s lap, and let Elizabeth pick out the baby corn he loved from the stir fry, and drop them one by one into his mouth. Christmas with the Burkes was the _best._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 5 of the 2011 holiday advent calendar at whitecollarfic.


End file.
